


when a beautiful blonde asks, you don't say no

by oncewewerezombies



Series: forming a heart-shape in the air with our hands entwined [2]
Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Alien/Human Relationships, Alternate Universe - Human/Troll Society (Homestuck), Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Alternate Universe - Noir, Banter, Carapaces, Dating, Domestic, F/M, Falling In Love, Fear Play, Gangsters, Hand Jobs, Intermission (Homestuck), Kissing, Mobsters, Semipublic Sex, Shooting Guns, Xenophilia, references to violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:13:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24001897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oncewewerezombies/pseuds/oncewewerezombies
Summary: The second date: ladies' choice.
Relationships: Hearts Boxcars/Rose's Mom | Beta Roxy Lalonde
Series: forming a heart-shape in the air with our hands entwined [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1305572
Comments: 8
Kudos: 16





	when a beautiful blonde asks, you don't say no

Would you stop thinking about that fucking broad and keep your mind on the job, Slick snarls and a charcoal-knuckled grip grabs you by the tightly-stitched behind of your jacket and pulls back, with barely enough force and speed so that the bullet one of the Felt just aimed at you goes past your head. Instead of through it. Huh, you say monosyllabicly, and shrug a little before adding a little bit of a verbal epilogue to your mild exclamation at your near demise; guess there's no harm done.

I'll show you fucking harm, you overgrown armchair, Slick promises you, and then the mechanical chatter of a tommygun cuts him off. You both flatten up against the side of the containers that fill the warehouse you're in and somewhere, you can _feel_ Droog sighing. Even though he's not actually anywhere near the pair of you, lost somewhere else in the warehouse and veiled in the dark. You sure hope he gets to putting into play whatever kind of distraction he's got up his exquisitely tailored sleeves soon. You're starting to think that he's forgotten you. You'd feel hurt but you're sure there's other factors in play.

A resounding BOOM announces that the distraction has arrived.

Clubs, you grunt with a certain sense of relief and maybe you got an occasional moment of doubt regarding the capering little runt but he can bring the goods like a sledgehammer when required. Slick hisses angrily between his fangs and the two of you burst out, while the warehouse's insides become lit with flame. Shaking, shuddering light falls across the walls and corridors of crates, and you hear Deuce laughing somewhere far off in that delighted way he gets when he's set a lot of shit on fire. You punch Doze in the face - something so easy it feels like you're cheating - sending him flying into a stack of boxes, then slowly trying to work his way out of the pile falling in on top of him. The boxes are on fire. If he doesn't move a little quicker, pretty soon he's gonna be on fire too.

It's kinda funny, so you let yourself have a little chuckle before turning to assist Slick in dragging out the particular box he's identified as being your reason for being here tonight. This one, he orders, and then turns to engage Crowbar with a set of wicked knives and managing to stop the most competent member of the Felt from stoving his head in with his titular weapon. Droog appears like a ghost in the flickering firelight and soon Crowbar has to beat a retreat under the combined forces of both Spades Slick's knives and Diamond Droog's poolstick. Personally, you like being able to attend to matters with just your fists but sometimes you can see the appeal of a weapon.

This all you want, you ask Slick just so's you're sure, shouldering the crate and hanging onto it with one hand. It's a little hefty, but nothing you can't lift. Awkward in shape, if anything. You can definitely carry it outta here though, no worries about that. There's a reason why you're the muscle of this buncha galoots.

That's it, he confirms, and something else explodes with a sharp _crack_. He doesn't flinch of course, because someone like Spades Slick was decanted without the bit of his brain that really let him feel fear or apprehension; let's go, he finishes off and makes a move to split the scene. You nod, and look around a little for a clear corridor out. Doze is still working his way out from his stack of boxes, but you're sure someone'll turn up to help him out soon enough. You make sure the crate is steady on your shoulder, and you follow Slick's example by leaving the warehouse and stuffing the crate into the back of the van he'd obtained for this heist. Guess you see why you needed the van now.

Droog shows up as you're making sure the crate is secure, and raises an eyebrow slightly at your smudged appearance. Damn prettyboy is still as picture perfect as he was when you'd all arrived, but somehow he's got the nerve to raise an eyebrow at a working man showing the evidence that he's been working. Get everything, he asks tersely, before seeing the crate. He nods very slightly in approval, and you just roll your eyes before stowing it and strapping it down so it's secured. Once it's in, you hop in after it and wedge yourself into a corner of the back of the van.

Somehow in that five minutes, Slick has started arguing with Droog about shit that means nothing to no one and the two of them get into the front of the van (still arguing) as you hold the back door open, scanning the burning warehouse. Something else explodes and then you see Clubs, finally making his exit and doing his strangely effective little scamper up to the van before clambering in. You reach out and pull the door closed behind him as he takes a seat on top of the crate that was apparently so fucking important that your crew had to blow a warehouse apart to get it.

You seeing her tonight, Clubs asks with a chirpy inquisitive comment and you grunt. The bickering in the front seat suddenly falls silent and you briefly cover your face with your hand. God damn it. Damn this group of meddling interfering bastards and their insatiable curiosity, and damn Clubs for having so little shame that he'd ask you just like that. So you _are_ seeing her tonight, he says like he's so fucking sly or something.

Hey Deuce, knock knock.

Knock knock who?

Nunya.

Nunya who?

Nunya _fucking_ business, ya little pipsqueak, you growl out at the end of the impromptu joke session. Yeah, you're a laugh riot, that's for sure. Clubs giggles, like no man his age ever should and you can hear Droog just exhale softly from the front seat. For him, it's as good as a full belly laugh. Real rollicking expression of amusement. Yeah, yuck it up, you _schmucks_ , you say sourly. You think about Roxy and it's real easy not to care about whatever the fuck they say. I'm splitting right after we get this loot back to the hide out.

It's all we could ask, Droog says smoothly and you know he's making fun of you, you're just not sure how. You wave your hand irritably to banish his words from your considerating. Not in the mood for this. You smell like smoke and explosives, you've got a nick through the brim of your hat, and you have a date t'day. You're going to be running late, but at least it's Slick behind the wheel. At this point it's a bonus that he treats things like traffic signals and speed limits like guidelines. And he really hates guidelines.

When you arrive, you do your duty and heft the crate to the room where Slick tells you to leave it and then you skedaddle. You got a date, right. You don't want to get all twisted up in whatever else the boss is planning. Not this time. Not tonight. It's only the second date. You don't think you've got the right to call out without a damn good reason yet. Maybe being dead would be a good enough reason, but you doubt it. Not for a dame like Miss Lalonde.

She sure is something. 

Ten pounds of dynamite in a five pound sack, and that's a mild way to describe her.

She'd set up this date, said you'd done enough with the last one and assured you of how much she'd loved it. Still, she'd claimed this one as her responsibility. Said you should wear clothes you didn't mind getting dirty. It's not like you're a dungarees kind of guy, so you put on one of your older suits and a shirt you don't mind getting ripped or stained. There's a certain level of style associated with being a member of the Midnight Crew, and you might not be Droog, but you're not letting the team down neither. Got to commit crimes against the law, not fashion.

She'd given you an address, and you'd carefully rifled through your street directory to plot out a course. The last time you'd bought a GPS for the common Crew vehicle, it had lasted exactly three hours, and then Slick had put a knife through it because he was sick of some high-toned broad telling him what to do and mispronouncing street names. So you rely on doing things the old fashioned way. Finding actual street directories in paper format gets to be more of a chore every year.

When you pull up in front of the building she's sent you to in the middle of nowhere, you're at least a little surprised by the look of it. Seems sparse, not very classy, not what you would have expected. And it's a fucking rifle range. You turn your wheel and you check the clock, wince inwardly; ten minutes late.

She's waiting out the front of the place when you pull up, and you let your eye wander over her trim figure and that nice flash of ankle she's showing underneath her long coat, then it wanders up to the metal billboard announcing what this place is for. MACKENZIE'S RIFLE RANGE it blares in black print on a yellow background. The tin of the sign is warped, and there's rust on the corners. You trust her, sure, but...it ain't the most professional looking of places to go shooting. You're stirred by the thought of watching her with a piece as hot as she is, and you ponderously remove yourself from your car once you're finished parking with that thought still tickling your lobes.

There you are, she gushes, and grabs your arm at the elbow to start tugging you towards the place she's designated as the location of your second date. You let her; it's not like she could move you otherwise. Not if you wanted to dig your heels in, but you're kinda curious and you want to be a good sport. 

Here I am, is what you says back to her and you can't stop your lips from curving into a smile. It's much smaller than the one she's beaming up at you like a million watt globe but it's still there. And that's more than most folks would get outta ya. 

This is going to be so much fun! Her voice is filled with enthusiasm, and it's as infectious as a skin disease. You can't help but be in a good mood around her. If Slick had kept you much longer, you mighta tried to punch his head in. As it is, you're still fucking late but she ain't even making a fuss about it. Just seems pleased to see you, no matter what time you came around. She's a good sport, too good for you more than fucking likely. 

Aw yeah, you say with a little bit of a questioning lift at the end. You're interested to see what she has in mind, exactly. So what kind of hardware did you have in mind to get shooting, Rox?

Oh, I got a special lil somethin', somethin', that's fer sure. She grins at you, brilliant as sunshine and twice as deadly. I got my gear here already an' all, and since I got here before you, mister Boxcars, I picked out something special for _you_. She flutters her long eyelashes at you like a skilled coquette, as she pushes open the door to let you into the space that smells like the aftermath of gunfire, acrid and familiar in your nostrils, and you can hear the random _pop-pop...pop_ of someone shooting with a...pistol, you wanna say. Not anything big. Hey, Ronnie, she chirps to the fella on the desk and sashays her way on past, jerking her thumb at the old dude and bobbling slightly. Show him your eye-dee, huh, sweetheart? Gotta make sure you're on the up and up!

Thankfully, she didn't use your name inside so you can show the basset-hound faced older sonnuvabitch on the desk a fake set of 'em. You don't need anyone connecting you and her through any fucking kind of database. You're tempting fate enough as it is. He just nods slightly, then pushes the gun license and driving license back to you. She's pretty fucking lucky you got both and carry them regular; but then again, you're a Dersite carapacian in a human world. And one who's involved with the seedy underbelly of this verminous city to boot. He barely looked at 'em anyway, and waves you on through so you follow Roxy like you're mesmerised. 

You'd swear you could smell her perfume on the air, something expensive and feminine sliding over the top of burned cordite like oil on water.

Here we are, she sings, gay and lilting as a summer breeze as she escorts you back to what's evidently her chosen stand among the row along the shooting gallery. The targets dangle at the end of the range, vaguely bipedal shaped. If you were human, you might say they were humanoid but you're not so you don't. At the same time, you don't want to say they're Carapacian shaped neither. Things are too fucked up to make that a thought you want to have right now. Bipedal it is. Can't wait for you to show me your stuff, stud, she croons next to you as the both of you move into the booth, and you glance sideways just in time to catch her licking her lips as she slips her coat off to reveal her clothing underneath. Just capri pants and a nice blouse, but you can tell that it's been cut just so. Looks good on her.

She's really just one hell of a woman, and you make a point of telling her so. She blushes prettily at your compliment, dimpling at you slyly and gesturing at the guns laid out for you both on the counter. Some muffling earpieces too, but you're not sure that they're gonna fit over your head. Most stuff designed for fleshies doesn't. You're an order of magnitude bigger than they could even fucking hope to approach.

Lean down for me, big fella. That's an order you don't mind following, coming from the likes of her and she gets up on her tiptoes to try and fit the mufflers around your head, so as to protect your hearing sponges. Like you thought, they don't really fit around the dome of your head but you get a nice look down the front of her blouse so you ain't thinking that it's been a waste of time in any fucking way. A simple man. With simple pleasures. That's all you are. And by now you're certain that she wants you to look, so it'd be doing her a disservice not to. That was just facts.

I got a Ruger Super Redhawk for you, she coos once she's got the mufflers as settled as they're gonna ever be, pointing out the big handgun on your side of the booth. She pouts prettily at you, pursing her sooty lips at you while she walks her fingers up over to the gun. Strokes an elegant digit down the equally elegant looking barrel. You swallow maybe a mite heavily, imagining her fingers stroking over something else more sensitive than gun metal. I bought my Sharps, and the way she looks at that rifle, you could just maybe be jealous if it was a man. It's a real hot and heavy look, and when she picks it up easily, she rubs her cheek over the stock lovingly. This my lil bebe, I paid so much for this 'un. It's a real antique but y'ain't nevah seen somethin' shoot so clean, I just love it all to itsy-bitsy pieces!

Uh huh, you mutter because you know just about nothing about fucking guns, you're more of a hands on kinda guy. Mano a mano, et cetera. A lot of guns ain't made for mitts your size neither - easiest just not to bother. She beams at you over her rifle, cuddling it to her like a favourite toy. The place where the stock joins the muzzle right up between her sweetly rounded tits, and making you think of other things nestling right up between her tits. You cough gently, and try not to blush. You can't keep your eyes off her as she grins at you, all her teeth on display before she moves to set herself up with her rifle on a rest. Rump up as she bends over, and you have to close your eyes for a moment.

It's only the second date, you remind yourself. You can't expect nothing yet from a lady of her quality, and y'ain't about to go pressing like some lowbred schmuck. You might be lowbred, but sure as fuck you still know how to treat a _lady_.

When she fires off her shots, you hear her make a sound like you'd expect her to make in bed, unmistakably aroused. When she comes over to 'teach' you how to shoot the unmistakable deliverer of persuasion in your ham-handed grip. You've shot a piece before, you don't _really_ need her to come and show you how to hit the target but saying that maybe you could use a little help, get some shine on your old memories means you get her pressed up against your back. Warm and heavy against your shirt, because she'd coaxed you take your jacket off and hang it up to the side to keep gunsmoke residue off it, one less layer between you and her bare skin. Smelling like summertime promise of lazy peace to come and violence. 

Shooting with Roxy Lalonde is both an education and a god damn curse. It's obvious that she enjoys it, and you definitely enjoy the squealing and applause when you make a bull's eye. You'd have been tempted to make it look like she was teaching you from the ground up, but you'd also been certain that she'd be able to tell so there was no point fooling around. New to the piece, sure. New to the whole rigmarole? Nah. Watching her shoot is as sizzling as the surface of the sun and you take a moment to swallow, and have to close your eyes for a moment before you get back to watching her, and her perky ass as she hauls around a gun that seems to be almost as long as she is tall. 

It's attractive. You're very attracted, and you can't find it in yourself to pretend otherwise. You're very much a what you see is what you get kinda guy, and you're certain she knows exactly the effect she's having on you. Body and soul. 

Since you're pretty sure that this was her whole end goal, you don't think she minds all too fucking much.

When the pair of youse spill out of the rifle range and back onto the asphalt of the parking lot, she's swinging off your arm and laughing as she babbles about guns she's got and things she's shot, and you're more than a little hot under the collar. Outside, there's a vending machine and she thumps it in a particular way and out rolls two cans of pop without her having to spend a dime. She smirks at you, and offers you one - after giving you yet another chance to look down her decolletage.

Feeling thirsty, buster?

Parched, is what you say, and that don't even come close to how you're feeling. The thirst in you is like a desert, and it sure ain't aimed at any type of soda pop or other drink. You take the can, and pop it open with the edge of your thumb-claw. Without saying anything, she gives you the other and you give her the open one, before you pop open the second. What a handy man y'are to have around, she murmurs, and leans up against your side in what you're gonna term a companionable manner. The two of you drink your pop in mutual silence, and then she lets out a little, almost genteel burp and giggles, hand in front of her mouth. 'scuse ME!

You're just as cute as a fuckin' daisy, Rox, you say without thinking, and she chuckles. Low and more in the back of her throat than her giggle was, and then grabs you by the front of your shirt before jerking you just off balance and over to the side of the building, outta sight of the front windows. Now, you don't have to let her pull you around like that, you ain't the kinda guy to be easily dragged around but you find you can't find it in yourself not to let her pull you around like a sack of spuds when she's got that look in her eyes. You're thinking it bodes well for you and the way you're feeling right now, after watching her wrestle that big gun.

You're too cute, she coos and despite yourself, you can feel yourself blushing, just across the back of your neckshield. It just caught you off-guard, that's all. Y'ain't the blushing type, not Hearts Boxcars, member of the Midnight Crew. But you don't have a _lot_ of experience with the fairer sex, and definitely none with ladies of Roxanne's calibre. C'mon, stud.

The pair a ya are barely outta sight behind the corner of the building when she throws her arms around what she can reach of your neck, and pulls you down into a kiss. It's even more satisfying than the first kisses you'd shared, somehow. Her mouth tastes like cheap cola instead of expensive wine, and the odour of gunsmoke is swimming around you both. You groan a little, and reach down to grab her at her waist, before she reaches down with one of her hands and shifts it to her ass. Well, damn. Guess that's as good as written permission, ain't it?

While you're distracted with kissing her and feeling up the curves of her sweet derriere, you're surprised just a little later to find out she's got her hand down your pants. You didn't even notice her unzipping your pants to get the barndoor open, and she's already got a knowing grasper mucking around the straining front of your shorts. Shoosh, she hums, and nips at your neck as you hoist her up just a little bit against you. A little thing like her ain't even close to a strain on your arm, and you groan softly. Keep it down! Or do you wanna get caught, big boy?

No _ma'am_ , you growl out, and try to shut your yap as she gets acquainted with what's down the front of your pants. Despite the relative size difference you're sure exists between a softskin and a carapacian like yourself, she doesn't seem put off at all. Nah, she's gripping your piece through the soft cotton of your underwear like she gripped that riflebutt and you huff a sharp breath out through your nose-slits at how well placed she seems to handle it. _Damn_ , you rumble out. Ain't you all over that hot rod.

Baybey, when a piece this hot comes by, a gal shouldn't hesitate, you kno'whaddamean, she croons in a rush, and her fingers tighten their grip a little. You grunt, and resist the urge to tighten your own. She leans up to kiss you and you kiss her back, feeling her soft mouth against yours all over and her tongue pushing fearlessly inside despite the threat of your teeth. She's plastered across the front of you while you lock lips like teenagers, her body covering the fact that she's giving you a handjob in broad daylight. Out in public. You're a man for risks, but this is a new one on you and you're coming to find that you _love_ it.

God, Rox, you're gonna kill me, you grunt, and your mouth is watering like the dickens, making you swallow hard. She smells so good and feels so soft in your hands. Burning hot, slender hands (she's got both of 'em down your trousers now) jack you off and you let out another rumbling huff, trying to keep the noise down. This isn't what you expected, for the first time the pair of youse did something. But you'd be lying through your teeth if you said you minded all too much, and you're too busy moaning through them instead.

You feel like you should be doing something for her, but when you try, she pushes your hand away and assures you that you're doing everythin' that she could possibly want, sugar. Apparently the order for the day is Roxanne does what she fucking wants, and you are more than happy to go along with it. You go along with it so well, you cum in your god damn pants like a horny human teenager with no more self control than God gave a dog. 

When she licks her fingers clean and grins at you with a smear of something on the corner of her mouth, you think your heart could stop.

Despite the openness of your situation and the oddity of it, you kiss and canoodle a little more while she helps you tidy up. Zip up your pants. Wipe the lipstick off your face. You don't really want to but you lean down so she can wield her moist handkerchief all the same, before the two of you stroll as nonchalantly as possible out to where you parked your cars in the lot.

You wave goodbye, and watch her go. Then you carefully wobble your way back to your own car, trying not to let the stickiness in your shorts and against your skin get to you. You carefully squirm your way into your car seat, and you carefully lean over and pull the door closed before driving off (again, carefully). You didn't do this shit even when you were an adolescent, yet here the fuck you are. Going home with cum in your jockeys like a fucking teenager who doesn't know what a condom is for, or the slightest ounce of self control.

You sneak in and get showered clean with no fanfare. Go to bed. You think for a moment before you fall asleep that you've gotten away with it. The whole kit and caboodle.

In the morning, Droog stares at you and then smirks. Somehow, you know he knows, and he knows you know that he knows. Your silent conversation passes between the two of you like sparkling electricity, while Slick complains about how the coffee tastes, like he always do. The smirk on Droog's shell is getting to you.

So you throw a plate at him. Mostly outta frustration, you'll admit that. You ain't never been a patient kinda man.

His eyes widen briefly, before it shatters on his forehead. You've always had good aim and a quick arm, but you really hadn't expected to actually hit him. He lifts himself up from the table hissing, and then throws the table at you. Sending plates and cups of coffee flying in splatters across the room.

Breakfast descends into frantic chaos, and no one fucking asks you how your date went. Which considering what happened, you appreciate. You ain't never been good at hiding your feelings about romance, and you think Roxanne Lalonde is one of the most romantic things to ever happen to you.


End file.
